Often I ask, “Am I a good writer?”
Internally of course, never out loud.
Of nothing I create have I felt proud
For my desire, I am not a fighter.
I try to make others lives seem brighter,
My personal passion I try to shroud.
I may have wants but they are not allowed,
My burden never seems to get lighter
I’m caught in between duty and desire,
Wanton wants, outstanding obligation
A fear of getting burned, or fear of fire?
At my final curtain, no ovation.
My life unlived, making me a liar
When I ignore my dreams and temptations.